2. The Body is a Weapon

There was something too normal, too plebeian about jogging as a hobby or a sport for someone like her. When she was nine, her karate sempai told her she had to exercise to keep in shape, and she picked, of all the girly activities in the world, gymnastics. Karate had fallen by the way side by the time she joined the Nightstalkers, but she still practiced her tumbles and floor routines whenever she got the chance. Yoga kept her limber, and her body remembered the rest.

Per Sommerfield's suggestion, she had informed King that he would be working out with her in the mornings. Her workouts would bend him; Dex's would probably break him. Since he had no immediately foreseeable alternatives other than remaining with the Nightstalkers, and had expressed no opinions about leaving--remarkable, seeing as he had opinions about everything else--King agreed to show up at the crack of dawn, on her schedule, to begin his physical rehabilitation.

He arrived noisily, looking haggard and too skinny in a pair of Dex's spare sweat pants and a shirt with the sleeves cut off. Eyeing her warily, he eventually dropped onto the mat, sitting Indian-style, bracing himself on his hands and reclining backwards. She could understand his hesitation. Hedges still flinched whenever he caught her in this particular stretch, a straddle-split, toes pointed at opposite walls.

"You can relax, King," she reassured him, bending at the waist and extending her arms out in front of her. Her long fingers reached clear across the space between him and brushed his shin where he sat. "I don't expect you to ever be able to do this," she said into the mat.

"That's sexist." She almost laughed in his face. Who was he to make that complaint?

"It's realistic," Abby grunted as she pulled herself up, straight backed. "I wouldn't be able to do it if I stopped practicing."

"How long have you been able to do that?" He nodded, without looking, at her split.

"Since I was ten." She stretched herself out over her left leg, touching her nose to her knee.

"When I was ten," King said, scratching absently at the back of his head, "I learned to ride a unicycle."

Sommerfield had pulled her aside after their little pow-wow to instruct her to take a personal interest in King's recovery. She had to start giving two shits about his life, his former life, and that meant listening and responding. Unused to it, Abby could only come up with a moderately dismissive, "How nice for you."

"Anything you can do something stupid in or on, and I'm there," King grinned. "My uncle was a clown. I got to ride unicycles and juggle machetes before I was old enough to drive."

"Uncle?" This kind of information was more useful. An uncle, perhaps, might be able to take him off their hands.

"Yeah, you know, family. The thing none of you seem to want to talk about much around me."

Abby sat up, changing sides and stretching over her right leg. "It's not come up, really."

"Well, I just brought it up. So, let's talk." King leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "You talked about your dad before, when I redecorated the bathroom with my stomach."

"Yes," Abby fought a smile. "He kills vampires for a living."

"Family business, huh?"

Abby inhaled deeply as she rose this time, fixing him critically before answering. "If you're asking if I got into it for him, the answer is no."

"I see. You're more civic-minded. Wanted to make a difference. Fight for truth, justice, and the American way."

"Not really," Abby shrugged, drawing her legs in easily, pressing her feet together and tucking her heels in towards her body. Sitting like this, almost a mirror image of him, she was able to get her knees to lay flat on the ground while his hovered somewhere at the upper limit of what gravity would allow. Stretching him out would take a lot of work.

"So, why do this? Why spend your days on the stake and the permanent crimson wave?"

"I got into it to hurt people," she said, raising her chin defiantly.

King's expression didn't change. "If that was supposed to impress me, it worked."

"I'm not joking, King," she snipped, leaning over her legs until she could feel the pull on her inner thighs.

"I know. You don't have a sense of humor."

She looked up sharply at him, ignoring a flaring urge to snap back at him. It wouldn't help. They were supposed to work together. Bickering would only sour whatever compassion and patience she had for him after seeing what he went through to become human again.

She sat up again, resolved to make the best of this. "Sit like I'm sitting, King. It's time to get started."

"Yoga is a chick thing, Whistler," he groused while struggling to comply. His legs refused to form into the neat figure hers did. When he stopped fighting and shifting, she considered his form. Instead of her tight, compact folding, his legs came together in a roughly diamond shape, with his knees a foot off the floor and his feet at least as far from his body.

Continuing to lead, she bent down slowly, keeping her back straight, and extending her arms out in front of her. She heard no sound of him moving to copy her, so she waited for his inevitable commentary.

"That looks...painful," he said, helpfully, as she held her breath and counted.

"It was, once."

"And then what?"

"I got used to it."

"Jesus, Whistler, it's not like beer or sex or something important. You don't get used to pain." Abby glanced up to catch the skepticism on his face. She had to concede he had due cause to dislike physical pain. Lord knows, the vampires had probably subjected him to enough of it over the past few years.

"It's different from an injury," she pulled back up, regarding him with a neutral expression. "It's a good pain."

"I have yet to meet this good pain of which you speak."

"If you'd stop whining, you might," she sighed, lifting herself up. It was an old dance move, crossing one leg over with the other bent at the knee and pushing off with the top leg and twirling up. Ignoring his delighted expression, Abby walked around him, dropping to her knees at his back. "Cooperate, already, King."

King turned his head to the side. "I don't know, that was pretty hot, Whistler. I might have to misbehave some more." As ever, what came out of his mouth seemed not to be indicative of his inclinations, and before she could push him, King made a half-effort at bowing over his legs.

"I'm going to help you," she said in his ear, "I'll push against your back. When it hurts, tell me."

"Are you going to stop?" He sounded like he wanted to laugh but couldn't for the strain.

"No."

"I'm having the weirdest sense of deja vu. You're sure you don't have fangs, right?" King grumbled, though he nodded. Abby leaned against him, pushing against the mat to counteract the stiffness and inflexibility of his body. She watched the shadow they cast on the mat carefully. He made a forty-five degree angle above his lap before she heard him gasp.

"Hurts?"

"No," he grated. Abby shook her head--stubborn--but did not press him any farther, merely held constant against him and kept him in place. His legs started to twitch and shake, but he clamped his hands down over his knees, and they stayed like this for a full thirty count.

"Enough," Abby said, finally, easing the pressure, King falling back against her every step. "This," she elbowed him, "is going to take a long time."

"It's going to take longer if you keep jabbing me in the kidneys, Whistler."

A retort was halfway to her lips when, without the help of her force, King pushed his body forward again, breathing in short gasps every few seconds, eyes closed, body shuddering in protest. She did not stop him, only observed. The attempt was pathetic, but the intent was sincere.

"Be careful, you don't want to strain anything your first day."

"Other than my pride, you mean," he said in a rush, leaning back on his hands once more. "If only my friends could see me now."

"Friends?" Other than the aside about his uncle, which she couldn't be sure was fact, this was the first time he'd volunteered any information about his life before Danica Talos. She felt almost greedy for the knowledge now that she was aware of its import.

"It might be hard to imagine for a social butterfly such as yourself, but I did have a few."

"And they let you walk off with Danica Talos?"

"Let me? They dared me."

"And then forgot about you," she prodded. This might be a good time to mention what they had learned, break it to him easily. Of course, none of the others thought she ought to be the one to do it. Dex or Sommer, they were more 'caring,' Hedges had said. Whatever.

"They forgot, huh?" King looked over his shoulder at her.

"Says our information. Your roommate didn't think anything of you being gone for a month."

"Let's see, what happened after a month? Where was I?" He mused, thinking aloud but to himself, so she held her tongue. "I don't think she'd marked me by then. I think I was still having a good time." His lips twitched oddly, and one eyelid trembled involuntarily. "Memories," he sing-songed.

"You had a good time with a vampire?"

His roguish grin returned, banishing the sickly thing that had trespassed on his lips. "I have a good time with every woman I sleep with...at first. Interested?"

"No, thanks," she said, flatly, though she could not deny her intrigue quite as easily as his invitation. What on earth would be so good about an extended relationship with a vampire? Aside from the promise of eternal life, which he seemed not to want?

"Danica was pretty creative, too," his tone was playful, even wistful, but there was an underlying sadness. It struck her, that note that might go unheard to an untrained ear. It reminded her of before, when he'd not been upset that she would have killed him if he failed to survive the cure. Like he was upbeat against his will, almost.

"Do you miss her?" Abby attempted dry humor, wanting nothing more than for him to chuckle or shrug it off, which he did.

"Like a hole in the head. She was selfish."

Abby frowned, disappointed. "That's it? You ditched her and came with me because she's selfish? I thought she was creative," Abby clucked at him.

"Yeah, but mostly about new ways to get off without me doing the same. That's cool for a while, but sooner or later, a guy needs to blow his load."

"Lovely," Abby snorted, sorry she'd asked. "Men."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He turned halfway around to see her better.

"You have abandon all survival instinct when it conflicts with getting laid."

King shrugged. "Unless your bent runs to sex with cougars, moving objects, or electric sockets, usually it's not a problem."

"And vampires are what, exactly? Cuddly teddy bears?"

"Not supposed to exist," he wagged a finger at her.

"Well, they do."

He raised an eyebrow at her simple rebuttal, turning away as he spoke, "Thanks for the newsflash. You couldn't have brought this to my attention, say, five years ago?"

"I didn't know you then," she offered, lamely. The mild rancor in his words propelled them into an interminable silence, which she sought to end by reaching out to place her hands on his shoulders, ready to resume the aborted workout. He started, surprised, only settling down when she began to position him again into the stretch. His reaction was instinctive, defensive, expecting one kind of pain to visit him--the random, vicious, scarring kind--versus the one she brought, pain that molded, reshaped, and rebuilt. It stirred her pity, and damn him for that.

"Did you ever think about trying to escape before I found you?" She murmured in his ear, watching his expression closely. His eyes were shut against the creaking stiffness of his joints as, together, they forced his chest lower over his legs.

"Lots. Of. Times," King hissed.

"Why didn't you leave?"

"Never got close to being healthy enough. Too tired." Yes, she remembered. The black circles on the pallid face, the weak pulse, the wasted figure, the strange bedraggled man with steel will and determination that could not be realized in the body left to him. Some sleep, immense fluid courses, and EDTA later, and that man was beginning to fade under the sparkle and pep of the one who had been subdued for five long years. The one she had to mold into a hunter.

"Did you ever try to contact your family or friends?"

King opened one eye, cocking his head slightly in the direction of her voice. "Why do you ask? What do you know?"

"We know," was all she would reveal, pushing him another inch to distract and dissipate his anger by focusing it productively on fighting his body, not her. "What do you want to know?" He held his breath, gasping as she forced him farther down. "Ask me."

"Are they," King wheezed, close to breaking, "are they okay?"

"Yes," Abby relented, easing off, King slumping back with her. She let him, not protesting as she sank backwards onto her legs and his head fell into her lap. Despite his careless, flirty attentions, and that one stolen kiss, he was no threat and did not exploit her small kindnesses. He didn't open his eyes as he breathed heavily for a short while. Idly, she stroked his hair, taking note of his temperature. Slightly elevated, even after two weeks, but nothing to worry about.

After a minute of this, she spoke, breaking the stillness. "Do you want to know more?"

King shifted, laying his cheek against her thigh. "Maybe. Depends on what the news is, doesn't it?"

"It's good. Or, at least, average."

King blinked, turning his head so he could look up at her. "Abigail."

"Yes?"

"You're a vampire-hunting hottie running the family business at age," here, he hesitated, squinting at her, trying to work it out, guessing, "twenty--"

"Twenty-one," she protested, suddenly very defensive of that year's difference.

"Either way, a barely-legal babe who kills the undead. What the hell do you know about 'average'?"

Point. What else could she do but just come out and tell him? "Your parents live in Montreal. Your sister is a senior at McGill."

"That's pretty normal, I guess," King didn't sound as if he approved.

Abby mock-frowned at him, putting her hands on her hips. "You're a barely living ex-vampire love slave. What the hell do you know about normal, King?"

"You don't shoot to wound, do you?" He clapped one hand over his heart, but the passing melancholy had vanished; she heard the laughter under the straight delivery.

"Be glad I don't. You wouldn't be alive if that were the case."

"Mmm," King let his eyes fall shut. "So, what's next? Not that I mind this," he reached over his shoulder to pat her on the thigh, overreached and got her ass instead.

"More of the same," she bent to whisper in his ear. Upon seeing his contented smirk, she jerked her legs out from under him; his head fell back against the mat, and he grunted, all without losing his good-humored smirk. Typical. Abby rose, walking around him and settling down into another split, one leg in front, the other behind. King hauled himself up into a sitting position, staring disconcerted at her.

"Now you're just showing off."

"I like to think of it as challenging you."

"Ah," King point his index finger at her, thumb upwards. Bang, gotcha. "A challenge. I like those."

"So I've heard." Shifting, she drew herself up far enough to slide her back leg forward and sit with both legs straight out in front of her, waiting for him to follow suit. He did, one 'why me?' sigh later, legs trembling even in a reclined position. She shook her head. "This is going to take a lot of work."

"I'm good for it," he tossed back at her, head lolling to the side. "Whatever doesn't kill me."

Nothing had managed to so far, she realized. That was more than a little scary, all things considered.